All our fairly sons on the playground
operating in brilliant colours, their excessive, brilliant voices ringing out.
Now the slides, now climbing, now leaping from swings.
They’re wonder-struck on the sight of
a inexperienced maple tree spilling its magic,
waving its arms at blue sky. They’re so little, the language
of violence hasn’t but entered them.
Older boys haven’t but taught them the right way to be merciless.
They contact the world with small arms
and are delighted—a xylophone bell
ringing a rainbow of seems like concentric circles
solid by a pebble on the floor of a lake.
It’s late afternoon. We be a part of the shadows of different moms,
pushing our swinging youngsters.
Little parabolas. They go larger and better
into what appears an countless sky.
The large shadows thrown by our our bodies
are us however not us,
like silhouettes of ladies transferring behind white sheets
on a clothesline.
And now this night earlier than the solstice,
swinging our sons
and the shadows of our sons
suspended in midair.
We personal nothing, not even our personal shadows,
tethered as we’re to time.
for Catharine
